A Case of You
by my-graceless-heart
Summary: At midnight on the New Year's Eve after your 22nd birthday, you are transported into the body of your soulmate to try and figure out who they are. Enjolras is, of course, completely prepared. Grantaire is decidedly not.


Ten.  
Oh god he wasn't ready. He was so far from ready. His hands shook, partly from nerves and partly because Bahorel hid the alcohol to make sure that Grantaire would remember who his soulmate was because _this was actually happening_.  
Nine.  
He was ready. Of course he was ready. He always was. Combeferre had just called to wish him good luck- he had his the previous year and everyone was surprised when it brought him the bold and abrasive Eponine. Well, everyone except Enjolras. He knew his quiet friend needed someone to pull him out of his thoughts, to drag him out into the world and away from his books. In that sense, Eponine was perfect for him. Enjolras hoped something like that would happen for him. In any case, he had sworn to call Combeferre immediately afterwards. His friend was strangely good at finding people, almost creepily so. Even if Enjolras couldn't find anything more than a name, Combeferre would help him find them.  
Eight.  
Grantaire's hands fisted in his hair. Oh god, his hair. He probably looked like a mess. He always looked like a mess, except for the rare occasions when he cleaned the paint off of his hands and put on a clean pair of pants to meet potential buyers for his art. He stared down at his hands. Why didn't he think to wash them? His soulmate was definitely someone he wanted to- needed to- impress. They were an _investor_. In his _future_.  
Seven.  
Enjolras resisted the urge to smooth down his hair again. He'd wanted a haircut. Something to make him more presentable to his soulmate. Courfeyrac shut that down almost immediately. "They have to be able to see the real you, Enjolras," he said in the tone he always used when he thought Enjolras was being too uptight. He was most certainly not being uptight. He just liked to make a good impression. He said as much to Courfeyrac, who looked at him like he had two heads. "Have you looked in the mirror recently?" His friend replied, incredulous. "Yes, and I need a haircut," Enjolras replied. Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, then snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head. "Hopeless," he muttered under his breath. Enjolras was suitably indignant.  
Six.  
Why did paint always get stuck under his fingernails? It was the worst type of paint to get stuck there too, a gold acrylic he'd been using for his latest painting. Eponine dragged him along to a recent protest that her soulmate helped organize. He wasn't sure what it was about- maybe the Salvation Army and their treatment of the queer community? He wasn't sure. But their leader was a sight to see, a halo of gold curls around his fierce face, red coat standing out like a beacon. That's what he was painting: the moment just before the protest became a riot. The leader was up on a platform giving one of the most passionate speeches Grantaire had ever heard. He found himself cheering along without even knowing why he was there. Though it was cold, wet, and gray that day, it only made the leader stand out more. The image was burned into Grantaire's head. How could he not paint it?  
Five.  
Enjolras laid out a few things on the table in front of him. His passport, declaring his citizenship and name. A newspaper clipping of their most recent protest, hugely successful before it devolved into a riot. Not that violence wasn't effective; it was just his least favorite way to make a point. Often, it only served to bolster the opposite side's argument. Luckily, it was not his protestors that started the riot. No, it was the police, laying into the crowd with batons to split them up despite the fact that Enjolras had obtained a permit only a week before to protest there. A few enterprising protestors had swung back, and the riot sprung from there. He bore the cracked ribs with a bit of pride, however sore they were.  
Four.  
Grantaire threw a sheet over the painting. No sense in letting his soulmate know how bad of a painter he was. He left the brushes and paints out. No time to clean them up- midnight was almost here.  
Three.  
Enjolras ran one more hand through his hair. He wished he had time to put it in a braid. The long curls went everywhere when he didn't.  
Two.  
Grantaire rifled hopelessly through his bag. Where on earth was his ID? How else was his soulmate supposed to know who he was? Bahorel didn't have his ID out when he got whammied, and the only reason he found his soulmate is because they knew the guy. It was the same guy he'd been making eyes at over coffee for the past three years, Feuilly. Still, he heard too many stories about not being able to find one's soulmate, for whatever reason. He didn't want that to be him.  
One.  
Here we go.  
Enjolras opened his eyes to a dingy apartment, the exact opposite of his own. Where his was large and spacious, this one was small and cluttered. The small windows opened onto a brick alleyway, letting in various sounds of merriment and the light from a nearby street lamp. Art supplies were stacked everywhere, old paintbrushes and tins, mason jars full of dirty water and canvases leaning against every available surface. One painting was on the easel, hastily covered by a rather ratty sheet. After taking in the apartment, he registered two things. One, he was standing. Two, there was an ID clutched in his fist.  
Grantaire opened his eyes and nearly fell over from shock. The apartment was... Nice. Really fucking nice. You could fit two of his apartment into the living room alone, and the giant bay windows he was facing a almost made him swoon imagining the sunlight that would pour in in the evening. As it was, he could see distant fireworks and a nearby party celebrating the new year. New year. Right. Midnight. He only had a minute. He went to stand up and jostled the table in front of him. "Ow, fuck!" He swore, barely registering the curls that fell about his hair as he fell back into the chair. Gold, not his own black mop. He ignored them as his gaze fell on the identification items laid out handily on the table. Well then. His soulmate was certainly more prepared than he was. He grabbed the passport and flipped it open to find the picture and name.  
Enjolras uncurled his fist- paint-stained fingers, he noted, with a nice strength to them- and looked at the ID inside. It was a rather faded student card for the Metro, a few years expired. A pair of startlingly blue eyes stared at him from the picture, almost hidden under a riot of black curls. Most of the name was faded, rubbed away with time, but he was able to make out part of it: Grantaire. He let his lips form around the word, the name of his soulmate. Grantaire. The fact that it wasn't even a full name barely had time to register before he was scrabbling for a piece of paper and a pen. Yes, he had left enough out for his soulmate- GRANTAIRE- to find him again, but he wanted to make it easier. He wanted to know this artist with piercing eyes and paint-stained hands. As he was searching, his foot caught the edge of the sheet that covered the painting on the easel. It slid off, and his jaw dropped.  
Grantaire's mouth fell open at the picture. It was him, the leader of the protest. His golden curls were pulled back into a braid, and he even looked good in a passport photo, damn him. The harsh light that made Grantaire look sallow and a bit yellow threw this man's features into sharp relief. Cheekbones that looked like they were chiseled from a block of marble and deep blue eyes that sent a shiver to the pit of Grantaire's stomach even in a picture. His skin was pale and perfect, mouth a flawless curve of pink. Grantaire bit his lip, wondering what it would taste like, then realized _oh my god I'm tasting it right now_. That was the thing about this soulmate thing- you switched bodies. Only for a minute, just long enough to find out who they were before you were launched back into your own body. Right. Name. Grantaire tore his eyes away from the Apollo in the picture to stare at the name next to it. "How..." He peered at it a bit closer. "How the fuck do you pronounce that?"  
Enjolras blinked, and he was back in his apartment. Sitting still, holding his passport rather close to his nose. He dropped it, standing to shake his head. The chair bumped against his legs as he shoved it back to pace. The painting. It was the protest. His protest, with him painted as the glorious red and gold centerpiece. He wasn't even sure where Grantaire had been in the crowd that day. Certainly, close enough to register Enjolras' features well enough to paint them, but not so close that Enjolras would see him. He would remember if he had seen that man. The eyes still hovered in his head, and the strong fingers that curled around the ID. Idly, he wondered how those fingers would feel in his. Nice, he supposed. They seemed like good hands. Calloused and capable. He wondered what it would feel like if they- no. No, he had to call Combeferre. He picked up the phone and started to dial.  
The moment Grantaire opened his eyes, he swore. "Fuck. Fucking shit balls tit cunt motherfucker!" The sheet had somehow come off the painting, and Apollo had seen it. He clenched his fists, and heard the crinkle of paper. He glanced down. A piece of paper and a pen were clutched in his hands. He carefully uncrumpled the paper and stared in disbelief at the string of numbers that was printed neatly on it. A phone number. Apollo had left his phone number. His heart leapt, quashed almost immediately by a thought. What if he had written the number before seeing the painting and now wanted nothing to do with him? What if he meant to throw it away, which is why he still held the piece of paper instead of putting it down somewhere? He stared down at the numbers in his hand. What was he supposed to do with it now?  
"Combeferre, do you know someone by the name of Grantaire?" Enjolras asked without preamble. There was a moment of silence, and Enjolras could practically see his friend blinking slowly in surprise as the line crackled.  
"I know a Grantaire, yes," Combeferre replied after the longest moment of Enjolras' life. He gripped the phone so hard he thought he might break it. "He's Eponine's friend. I think she brought him to the last protest we had, actually."  
All of Enjolras' breath escaped in a rush of air. "See if she can bring him to the next meeting," he said, not caring how breathless he sounded. He could sound as breathless and stupidly cliche as he wanted because he found Grantaire.  
"Enjolras?" Combeferre asked after a moment. "Are you all right? I know this is a big deal-"  
"I'm fine," Enjolras cut him off. "Just get Grantaire to the next meeting." He hung up, not even caring that Combeferre's slow "ooookay" had been cut off. Grantaire was going to be at the next meeting. He had a lot of work to do.

* * *

"Why did I let you drag me along again?" Grantaire grumbled as he slouched along the street.  
"Because you were so drunk that you couldn't even spell your own name," Eponine replied, not relinquishing her hold on his arm. She knew that if she did he would vanish faster than she could blink. "And I'm tired of watching you wallow."  
"He saw the painting!" He wailed. "My stupid, creepy painting! How can I face him after that?"  
"Easy," she shrugged. "Walk up to him and ask if he liked it."  
"He was going to throw away his number, Ep," he sagged back, trying to drag himself out of her grip. "He was standing right by the trash can. He wrote it down then saw my painting and was so disturbed he was going to throw it out."  
She stopped. "Do you know that for sure?"  
He pouted. "No, but what else could have happened?"  
She started to drag him down the street again. "We're going to the Musain to find out, idiot."  
He followed, still pouting. He could break her grip if he wanted to- Eponine was strong, but he was stronger- but it was much easier to let himself be pulled along. Once she got an idea in her head, she didn't really let it go. It took meeting Combeferre to make her let go of Marius, and that wasn't even her biggest example of mule-like stubbornness. If she wanted to get him to the Musain, he doubted there was any force on Earth that could stop her.  
Finally they were there, a neat little cafe tucked between a bookshop and a pharmacy. A sign out front proudly proclaimed that it was the home of Les Amis de l'ABC, the activist group that Apollo led. Grantaire made one last effort to not go in, digging his heels into the pavement just before the door. Eponine rolled her eyes and shoved him inside.  
The door to the cafe flew open. Enjolras glanced up to see Grantaire- his Grantaire- come stumbling inside. The artist's gaze snagged on his own, and the other man began to back up, panic flaring on his face. Eponine slid in behind him, closing the door to neatly cut off any attempt Grantaire could make to escape. She gripped his elbow and steered him over to Enjolras' table, forcing him into the seat across from Enjolras' own. "Sit," she said, going over to kiss Combeferre hello. "Talk. Don't run. I'll know." She took Combeferre's hand to lead him away.  
Courfeyrac got up as well. "I know when I'm not wanted," he said lightly, teasing. "Have fun," he winked at Enjolras and just like that, they were alone.  
Enjolras looked over at his soulmate. The man looked terrified, eyes wide, hands clenching in his lap. "So," Enjolras said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.  
Grantaire's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "How do you say your name?" He finally said.  
Enjolras felt a smile spreading across his face. "Ouhn-jol-rahs," he said.  
Grantaire nodded, the smile clearly catching him off guard. "Enjolras," he repeated. Enjolras decided he liked how the other man said it.  
"I saw your painting," he said, and Grantaire froze. "It was amazing. No one's ever painted one of our protests before."  
"It was mostly you," the words fell out of Grantaire's mouth before he could stop them. "I mean, the protest was nice and all, if you're into that whole activism thing, but you," he shook his head, still incredulous at the memory, "you rose like a god over the whole thing. How could I not paint that?"  
The blond frowned. "I'm not a god,"  
Grantaire laughed, a low, derisive snicker. "Clearly. You're sitting here talking to me."  
Enjolras drew himself upright. "And what do you mean, 'if you're into that whole activism thing'? Do you mean to say you aren't?"  
"No point," Grantaire shrugged. "The whole world's going to shit, and you can't make it any better by shouting at it."  
"We don't simply shout at it," Enjolras' eyes flashed dangerously. "We organize letter campaigns and sit-ins, protests like the one you attended- why were you there if you don't believe in what we were saying?"  
"Eponine dragged me along," Grantaire slouched back in his chair. Figures that his Apollo would be all about saving the world. Just his luck, to be soulmates with someone who actually gave a fuck. "I wasn't about to let her go to a potential riot alone."  
"Is that all it was to you?" Enjolras snapped. "A potential riot?"  
Grantaire let his hands spread. "That's what all protests are. Potential riots with potential injuries and potential casualties."  
Spots of red began to grow on those perfect cheekbones. Grantaire decided he liked how that looked. "That is most certainly not all they are! We are speaking out! The people-"  
"The people don't care," Grantaire scoffed. "All they care about it putting in their day's performance so they can go home and feel all warm and fuzzy about themselves. Your performance just happens to be louder than theirs."  
"It's not-" Enjolras spluttered.  
"Oh, yes it is," Grantaire grinned, enjoying himself immensely. "Do you honestly think you would be up there yelling if people weren't around to hear you? No point in yelling about the injustices in the world if there aren't people around. Well, you might have people around, but they certainly aren't listening," he picked Enjolras' drink up and drank deeply as the blond continued to splutter. "You are performing, and you do it every day for all the attention you can." He stood, gesturing widely with the drink still in his hand. "All these people perform as well, but of course they're all background performers to you, the main star," he set the drink back on the table with a clunk, leaning until he was nose to nose with Enjolras. "You perform for the panopticon and hope others join in. Well, I won't. Sorry, Apollo." He shrugged and fell back into his chair, ignoring the eyes that followed him.  
Enjolras' mouth fell open. "You've read Jeremy Bentham?"  
"Foucault, actually. He argues the point of performance of self with the panopticon as an example. Bentham only presents the panopticon as a possible mode of surveillance in prisons or hospitals. Foucault does a much better job at analyzing the structure itself, although his prose is dry as hell. As for having read Foucault, what disgruntled college dropout with questionable sexuality hasn't?" Grantaire drank from Enjolras' drink again. "You should really get some alcohol in this. It might loosen you up a bit."  
The blond stood suddenly, walking around the table until he was right in front of Grantaire. "I would like to kiss you now."  
Grantaire stared up at him. "And you are telling me this because...?"  
"Because consent is important," Enjolras replied, blue eyes intent on his face. "And I would very much like to kiss you."  
Grantaire blinked. "Um. Okay? I mean, yes, you can kiss-" the rest of his sentence was cut off as Enjolras swooped down to capture his lips. The perfect pink curve of his lips tasted just like Grantaire thought it might, the golden curls perfect to wind his hands into. Distantly, he could hear Eponine wolf-whistling, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care with Enjolras climbing into his lap and kissing him like he could inhale everything that made Grantaire into his lungs. He nipped at Enjolras' lower lip, drawing a gasp from the blond man. They broke apart, staring at each other breathlessly. "Could I know what it was that I said?" Grantaire said after a moment. "Just so I know. So I can bring it out when I do something wrong. Or maybe on birthdays?"  
"Oh my god, shut _up_," Enjolras kissed him again, once, twice, then pulled back, Grantaire's face still held between his hands. "Are you done now?"  
Grantaire pretended to consider it, then let a slow grin spread across his face. "Never," he said, then pulled Enjolras in for another kiss.


End file.
